


Tag

by Ravenstone



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 17:58:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravenstone/pseuds/Ravenstone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By Ravenstone and ILWB</p>
<p>This tag story was written by two people in 24 hours, each taking turns to write a chapter. The only rule for this story was they had to introduce a new character each time the author changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tag

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ravenstone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravenstone/gifts).



ILWB

Airports can be very boring places when you are waiting for someone to arrive. Bodie was resting his head on his hand as he sat in his uncomfortable chair, and gradually he leaned more and more heavily on Doyle who was sat beside him. More alert than his partner, Doyle became aware of Bodie drifting off, then, just when his weight was almost entirely entrusted to him, he quickly moved away, causing Bodie to wake up with a jolt. 

“Oh cheers, mate,” said Bodie, with some sarcasm. 

“Well you can just imagine what Cowley would say if we both fell asleep on the job!”

“I wasn’t asleep!” said Bodie, indignantly. 

“Yeah right.”

Bodie pouted, then slumped back in his chair and crossed his arms across his chest. “I hate all this waiting. When’s his flight due?”

Doyle checked his watch again. “Half an hour ago.”

“Oh. Great.”

Just then an announcement came over the tannoy in that typical annoying voice that is always so difficult to understand. 

“Flight Number BA425 from Belgrade has now arrived. We apologise for the delay.”

Bodie and Doyle both got up immediately and made their way over to the International Arrivals gate. 

Again, Bodie grumbled. “Don’t see why we couldn’t get airport security to do this,” he muttered.

“Cowley wanted it kept under wraps, low key. We need to get this guy but nobody is to know. You know that.”

“And what’s the description again?”

Doyle took a piece of paper from his pocket. “My height, long shaggy hair, beard, going grey. Bit of a gypsy.”

“If he looks as suspicious as he sounds, he might not get through security anyway.”

“Well just you keep ‘em peeled. He’ll be through any minute.” 

People started to appear in the wide corridor, walking towards the agents who stood amongst the crowd of waiting family, friends and taxi drivers. The numbers increased until it gradually became a mass of people, luggage and trolleys. Bodie’s eyes narrowed as he concentrated on each individual, oblivious to the kissing and hugging going on around him as people met up with their loved ones. Doyle touched Bodie’s arm lightly, drawing his attention to a large trolley heaped high with luggage, moving slowly towards them. It was stacked so high that you couldn’t see who was pushing it, except for a mop of unruly hair that showed just above the uppermost case. 

They stepped around the barrier and approached the owner of the trolley from both sides, each putting a hand on the shoulder nearest them. A sun tanned face looked up first at Doyle, then at Bodie, a wide grin splitting his features. 

“Ah cheers,” he said, in a broad Scouse accent, “I’ll keel over if I don’t get some help soon.”

“Eh?” said Bodie, raising an eyebrow.

“You guys,” said the man, gesturing towards his stack of luggage, “Airport porters, aren’t you?”

Doyle pulled his ID out of his pocket and showed it briefly. “Don De Marco,” he said, “We’d like you to come with us to help with our enquiries.”

“Police? Oh shit,” said Don, dropping his head down and tucking his chin into his woolly grey jumper. 

“Not quite,” said Doyle. “CI5.”

“Oh, Christ.” Don’s face fell even more. 

“Exactly,” said Bodie. 

********

Half an hour later they were still trying to stuff boxes and bags into the Capri. Bodie had pushed forward one of the rear seats to make a bit more room and stacked the luggage in as best he could, but he was still left with three crates that just wouldn’t fit. 

“We’re going to have to leave these behind,” he said, gesturing towards the remaining heap.

“You can’t!” said Don, grabbing one of them. “Me doves are in this one.”

“Doves?” said Doyle, incredulously. “What about the others?”

“Equipment, for my act.”

“Right, so the doves can go on your lap in the back, the other two will have to stay here. We’ll send someone to come and get them.”

Still protesting about his remaining possessions they forced De Marco into the back seat of the Capri and dumped the box on his lap, then got into the car themselves and slammed the doors shut. 

“My poor suspension,” muttered Bodie, as he started the engine. “I hope this guy is worth all this trouble.”

“Cowley seemed to think so,” replied Doyle, resting his foot on the dashboard.

A slightly muffled voice called from the back seat, trying to talk around the large box on his lap. “Did you say Cowley? George Cowley? Well why didn’t you say so before?”

 

Raven RS

 

The news that it was Cowley that had arranged his escort from the airport made the man visibly relax, a wide grin splitting the expressive face in relief.

Bodie and Doyle exchanged looks, wondering again what Cowley wanted with this scruffy, wiry man. A small smile lit up Bodie's face and he raised an eyebrow to his partner. Doyle grinned, immediately understanding the silent communication.

“So, you know Mr. Cowley, then?” he asked, his voice carefully pitched to nonchalance.

De Marco watched the scenery from his cramped seat in the back of the Capri as they crawled through the rush-hour traffic. “Oh ar. I've known the Cow for years.”

The familiarity raised Bodie's eyebrow further. He glanced in the rear view mirror, suddenly finding himself pinned by two bright blue eyes. De Marco gave a secretive smile. “Of course, that's need to know, mate. And I dunno as you two need to know, know what I mean?”

Bodie assessed the razor sharp gaze, the calm attitude that instilled a sense of security and safety, and the wiry strength hidden behind the baggy jumper. “Undercover?” he asked. In the corner of his eye he caught the quick sideways glance of his partner. Doyle had arrived at the same conclusion.

De Marco didn't nod, but the quick blink of his eyes was intended to convey the same meaning. “You'd better ask the Old Man,” he said.

“We've got company.” Doyle's quiet voice cut through the conversation like Toledo steel. Bodie was suddenly all business again, and De Marco instinctively hunched lower in his seat.

“Bike,” Doyle added. Bodie glanced in his mirrors, and immediately saw the bike Doyle meant. A black and red faired bike with twin headlights ducked in and out of traffic behind them, carving a way through the rush hour build up. The blue eyes hardened and his lips paled into a thin line.

“Anyone else going to be interested in you, mate?” he asked the figure in the back, his Scouse accent falling into place in response to his fellow Liverpudlian sat behind him. 

“Try everyone, from the police to Interpol,” came the less than reassuring reply.

Doyle checked the reassuring weight of the Hi-Power sitting snugly under his arm. “Anything we should know about.”

“Well, desperate times call for desperate measure, eh?” The lazy drawl belied the tension now evident inside the car. “I went undercover with a bank robbing gang. Someone got killed and I ended up on the run, hiding out in various Circuses.”

Doyle gave a nod of understanding. “And the Cow is never one to miss an opportunity.”

“Exactly.” There was a rueful expression on the handsome, rugged face. “So I've been all round Europe, being another pair of ears and eyes for Queen and Country.”

“And smelling ever so slightly of lavender and roses,” Bodie muttered, eyes flicking from the road ahead to the bike following. 

De Marco gave a smirk of recognition at the familiar words. “He still saying that, is he? He should get a new script writer.”

“Left,” Doyle interrupted smoothly. Without further communication, Bodie steered the Capri smoothly through the back streets, following each command of his partner without hesitation. He kept his attention on both manoeuvring through the crowded streets, and checking on the red and black bike. 

“It's not going to work, Doyle,” he said at last, his voice tense. Doyle nodded. There was no possible way a car could outmanoeuvre a motorbike, especially through pedestrians and traffic alike.

A sudden break in the traffic allowed Bodie to open the throttle on the 3.0L S, leaving a throaty roar in his wake. However, it also allowed the bike to break away from the traffic, the rider winding back on the throttle to bring himself nearer what was obviously his target.

The Capri slewed sideways down another alley, boxes and bins careening behind. The rider dodged them with graceful swings and glides, catching the bike before the tyres lost their grip on the slippery, uncertain road surface. It created sufficient diversion to keep the Capri ahead, however, and when the alley way opened out to a wide space by the docks, Bodie smoothly swung the car round, one hand gripping the handbrake to complete the turn. The car was still rocking to a standstill as both men dived out of the vehicle, shielding themselves behind the doors, their guns trained unerringly on the way they had entered.

The motorbike was a split second behind them. The rider pulled the bike up to a sharp halt, the rear wheel sliding around to bring the bike to a standstill sideways on.

Stand off.

Bodie and Doyle watched carefully as the rider kicked the bike into neutral before holding his hands up in cautious surrender. Bodie gave a nod, and the rider reached out slowly to turn the key, killing the throaty burble of the engine. Once the bike was silent, he reached for his helmet, each movement slow and deliberate, signalling his intention for the two men with the guns to understand and approve each action.

He removed the helmet, balancing it on the tank in front of him. The black and red leathers clung to his lean frame like a second skin, muscles clearly seen moving sleekly and smoothly beneath the tight material. His dark hair was flattened slightly from the helmet, and he ruffled the damp locks with a gloved hand, giving it a debauched look. Dark blue eyes regarded the two agents coolly and professionally, set in a classically handsome face. Strong lips firmed in a determined line.

“You're CI5,” he called out.

“Yeah? Says who?” Doyle snarled. In his element, the Birmingham street urchin came to the fore.

“Says me,” was the response, in a carefully modulated voice. The rider unzipped his leathers down to his waist and set the side stand down on the bike before dismounting in one smooth, fluid motion.

“And who're you?” Bodie demanded.

The man stood like a coiled tiger, all smooth muscles and latent power. He removed his gloves and stuffed them inside the helmet which he held in one hand. “Captain Peter Skellen. S.A.S. Sent here to provide an escort.”

The announcement did not cause the two agents to relax. “First we've heard of it,” Doyle replied, his belligerent tone not lessened by the man's announcement.

Skellen gave a calm, cool smile, his easy military stance immediately reminding Doyle of his partner. “Call it in, then. I can wait.”

Doyle looked across to his partner. Bodie's attention did not move from Skellen. “What do you reckon, mate?”

Bodie managed a smooth shrug without his aim wavering. “I know a Skellen,” he said curtly.

“So you reckon it's alright, then?” The Scouse voice from the backseat reminded them of their passenger.

Bodie's eyes did not leave the biker. “I knew Keller as well.”

Doyle heard a history behind the five words delivered in the same deliberate tone. “What about Skellen?”

Bodie didn't seem to react to his partner's question for a long second, before suddenly putting up his gun, returning it to his holster, and standing up from behind the door smoothly. “Skellen's alright,” he said shortly. And again, the two words hid a conversation that would have taken half an hour between anyone other than these two men.

Trusting Bodie, Doyle holstered his own gun and stood up, although he maintained a wary eye on the tall man facing them. Bodie approached Skellen while Doyle stayed back, standing between anyone and their charge.

Skellen weathered Bodie's appraising glance with equanimity. Satisfied, Bodie reached out with one hand. Skellen looked from the hand to the dark blue eyes, and back to the hand, before accepting the handshake firmly.

“Mr. Cowley will have your CO's guts for garters if he's pissing us about, you know,” Bodie said calmly.

Skellen gave a rakish grin. “I'd pay good money to see that.”

 

ILWB

 

The remainder of the drive back to HQ took on a seamless quality. To the untrained eye nothing looked out of place, as the powerful motorbike cut a path through the rush hour traffic, closely followed by the silver Capri. But inside the car things were not quite so relaxed. 

“Why does Cowley think we need extra backup?” wondered Doyle, hanging on to the door handle as Bodie took a sharp turn faster than usual in order to keep up with the bike. The boxes in the back thudded as they scooted across the boot space and De Marco clutched at the box still balanced on his lap.

“Dunno,” said Bodie, concentrating on the traffic. “He must be expecting trouble.”  
Almost as soon as the words left his lips, they found exactly what Cowley was expecting. A car swerved ahead, cannoning into Skellen’s bike and sending him spinning off into the kerb like a skittle. It was obviously an intentional hit.  
Bodie braked hard and De Marco cried out from the back, “Bloody hell!” as the rogue car sped off past them and away. 

Doyle was out of the car before it had stopped, his gun drawn as he ran towards the stricken Skellen. 

Bodie grabbed the car radio. “Priority A3!” he snapped into the receiver, “3.7, emergency, get an ambulance to Southwark Lane,” he glanced out of the window to get his bearings, “near the Adelphi cinema.”

“Roger 3.7, on their way, can you give more details of the casualty?”

“Captain Peter Skellen, bike accident, don’t know the extent of it yet. Tell Cowley we’ve still got De Marco and he’s safe.”

“Confirmed 3.7, ambulance ETA 7 minutes. Out.”

Bodie then changed to the R/T which he pulled out of his jacket pocket. “Doyle?”

Doyle’s voice crackled back. “Stay with De Marco.”

“How is he?”

“Out cold.” Doyle sounded nervous. Bodie could see him trying to undo Skellen’s leather jacket.

“Well don’t take his lid off, could damage his spine,” instructed Bodie, chewing his lip as he watched the scene before him. “Ambulance here in 4 minutes.”

“Right.” Doyle looked up at him, still holding the R/T to his lips. “That was no accident.”

“No.”

In the distance came the sound of sirens. ‘Priority A3’ always got fast results. 

“Shouldn’t we get out?” asked De Marco.

Bodie turned back to him. “No, that could be exactly what they want. You’re safe here and I’m armed.”

“Me own personal bodyguard, eh?” grinned De Marco, craning his neck around the box to watch what was going on outside. 

The ambulance pulled up just in front of the Capri and the rear doors were quickly opened. An attractive, older man jumped down, running his hand through his short cropped silver hair as he took in the scene before him, before grabbing his medical bag and making his way over to Doyle. 

As he turned his back Bodie saw the word ‘Doctor’ written across his orange vest. He smiled to himself. Maybe he should have ‘Civil Servant’ written on his own jacket, or ‘General Dogsbody’ perhaps? 

The Doctor crouched at Skellen’s side, glancing quickly at Doyle as he assessed his patient’s injuries. “Dr Robert Kingsford,” he said. “What happened here?”

“He was knocked off his bike,” said Doyle, “Can’t get him to open his eyes.” Doyle pulled his ID from his pocket and made sure Kingsford saw it. 

“I know who you are,” said Kingsford, crisply, “He’ll get the same treatment regardless.” He unclipped the strap of the crash helmet and gently began to pull it off. 

“I thought...” began Doyle in confusion.

“I know,” replied the Doctor, reading his mind, “old wives tale. We need this thing off.”

“But what about his spine?”

“Protecting his spine is no good if he can’t breathe. It’s a matter of priorities.” Doyle sat on the floor, watching the Doctor do his work. The driver of the ambulance then joined them, placing a stretcher and neck brace on the floor beside Skellen.

Doyle watched as Kingsford fitted the neck brace, then he helped to lift Skellen onto the stretcher. He still hadn’t woken or made a sound. Doyle stood and picked up the crash helmet, as Kingsford and the ambulance driver carried Skellen back to the ambulance. 

Once stowed safely inside Kingsford reached out to shake Doyle warmly by the hand. “Come by later, I’ll update you on his condition.”

Just for a moment Doyle looked uncertain.”Should I go with him?” 

“He’s in good hands,” said Kingsford with a kind smile. “You’ve got a job to do, let me do mine, okay?”

Then he jumped into the back of the ambulance and pulled the doors closed after him.

 

Raven RS

 

Doyle watched the ambulance leave, concern for the handsome SAS Captain giving him pause. He picked up the red and black bike, seeing how the fairing had shattered from the impact and trying not to think about the so-still body of Skellen as he propped the bike up by the side of the road. Whatever happened, he just knew they weren't out of the woods yet. 

The sound of the 3.0 litre engine registered with him even as he turned, expecting the car to pull alongside to pick him up. Instead, he watched dumbfounded as the back end of the car pulled away from him. His confusion rapidly turned to ice cold panic as he caught a glimpse of the figure in the passenger seat as it turned to wave goodbye out of the window. The curly haired figure with the chip-toothed grin was familiar to him – he saw it every morning in his shaving mirror.

The sinking feeling grew as he remembered leaving his R/T on the passenger seat of the car. The same passenger seat now occupied by some mysterious – and perfect – doppelganger.

He just had to pray that Bodie would notice the switch.

* * * * * * *

Bodie drove in silence to HQ, feeling the tension radiating from the long limbed figure sprawled in the seat next to him.

“Is that guy gonna be okay?” De Marco's voice came from the back seat, breaking through his thoughts.

Bodie gave a one-shouldered shrug, affecting a nonchalance he did not feel. “No idea. He wasn't moving last I saw.”

“Bugger.” The word was carried on an explosive breath.

Bodie expected some comment from his partner, but Doyle maintained his silence. Brooding, Bodie decided. In which case, nothing would draw him out of it.

“Did you get the number of the car that hit him?” he asked. When Doyle didn't reply, he cast a glance to his silent partner, a frown creasing his handsome features. “Hey, Doyle,” he prompted.

“Hmm?” A non-committal grunt was his only response. Bodie pursed his lips and fixed his attention on the traffic. He missed the cautious look the man in the passenger seat threw him.

“Well, at least one of us was awake,” Bodie continued. “I got the number. I'll run it through the system when we get in.”

He pulled into the rear entrance to HQ, nodding an acknowledgement to the guard on the perimeter. The continued silence from the man in the passenger seat was starting to annoy him. He knew it was partly because the longer it took for the explosion of temper, the worse it would be, and the waiting for it was always the part Bodie hated the most.

He held the seat back, taking the box from the outstretched arms and handing it to Doyle without a word. If the golly wanted to play it strong and silent, Bodie could out-do him for that any day of the week. Doyle gave a grunt as the box was thrust into his hands, while Bodie watched the long limbed passenger uncoil from the back seat and exit the car. He pushed the seat back with a clunk and slammed the door shut.

He turned around, and into the most surreal sight of his life. In Liverpool, he'd shared a spliff, aged 13; in Africa, someone had once spiked his drink with datura and he'd seen rainbows fly out from his fingertips and tasted starlight. He's once drunk moonshine so foul he'd been blind for 48 hours. But none of that prepared him for the sight that met his eyes.

Doyle stood frozen, De Marco's bloody box still held in both hands, and his green eyes wide with fear. The business end of a Browning Hi-Power was pressed to the side of his head. And on the other end of the Browning, was Doyle, breathing heavily, sweat sheening his skin and plastering his curls to his face and neck. The look in those green eyes was feral.

It was some kind of optical illusion.

“Missed me, sunshine?” the sweat streaked Doyle asked.

Doyle-with-the-box looked terrified, a drop of sweat running down the side of his face. “I told 'em this was a shite idea,” he said, in a voice far more northern than Doyle's typical Birmingham accent.

 

ILWB

 

"Well don't just stand there, Bodie," hissed Doyle, not taking his eyes off his quarry. 

Pulling themselves together, De Marco and Bodie moved as one, the former to grab his box back, and the latter to grab the fake Doyle's now free arms and pull them behind his back. With one swift movement he was cuffed. 

"Who the hell are you?" spat Bodie, still trying to catch up. 

Doyle waved his gun in the direction of the main entrance to the CI5 building. "Move," he said. 

They moved. 

******

The look on George Cowley's face was a picture, as the four men stormed their way into his office. De Marco put his box carefully on the edge of the large antique desk and smiled at the bemused Controller before going to stand by the window. Bodie pushed the fake Doyle in front of him causing him to stumble slightly just in front of Cowley, as Doyle strode in behind them, walked straight over to the corner cabinet and started to pour himself a drink. 

Belatedly he looked up, bottle in hand. "May I, sir?" Cowley couldn't take his eyes off the imposter. He nodded slowly, "Make it two," he said.

"Make it three," added Bodie. 

Doyle made it four, passing a glass to De Marco who knocked back the contents gratefully. 

"Don't suppose I get one," said the imposter, cockily. 

"Just who the hell are you?" said Doyle, looking him over carefully. 

"Name's Dave. I met Benny at a strip club I own. We were just having a laugh, right?"

Cowley sat at his desk and put his glasses on, peering at Dave. "Benny? What on earth was he thinking of?"

Dave shrugged his shoulders, "We thought it would be funny, he said I looked a bit like this bloke here." He nodded towards Doyle. "And he was right! You gonna untie me or what?"

"Or what," said Bodie, ignoring his request. He turned to Cowley. "Listen, sir, I don't buy that. He got in the car at the scene of Skellen's accident, how did he know where to find us?"

"I agree." Cowley pressed his intercom. "Betty, send Benny to see me, right away." He turned back to his agents. "You two take this...person... down to the cells then get over to that strip club. I want to know more about young Dave here. I’ll get Benny to radio you the name of his contact."

"Sir." Bodie took Dave by the arm and started to guide him out of the office. 

Doyle went to follow but hesitated a moment. "Sir, have we heard how Skellen is?"

"He still hasn't regained consciousness," said Cowley. "I'll inform you if I hear any more."

"Thank you, sir."

*******

After flashing their IDs quickly at the young girl on the stage door, Bodie and Doyle made their way into the dark depths of the seedy theatre. 

"I've been here before," said Doyle, looking around and up at the stairs that led to the dressing rooms.

"Yeah?" said Bodie.

"That nutter Nesbitt, remember? This is where I found the pusher.”

Bodi snapped his fingers as the name flashed back to him. “Eric Sutton.”

“Right.”

“You think there’s a connection?”

“I don’t know.....” Doyle’s voice drifted off as a group of dancing girls trouped past them, giggling and chatting. They were dressed like belonged to a harem, lots of floaty chiffon scarves, bejewelled bikinis and not a lot else. 

Bodie pulled one by the arm as she wafted past him. “What’s the play, love?” he asked, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Sinbad” she replied, “gotta go, sorry!” She flashed him a look of genuine regret and skipped onto the rear of the stage. 

Just then something caught Doyle’s eye. There was lots of scenery stacked all around the walls, and there was a small scrap of brightly coloured fabric sticking out from behind one of them. It was moving. Someone was hiding from them!

Stealthily he crept over to the large section of wooden scenery, then suddenly and with some force he pulled it away from the wall. 

He wasn’t prepared for the velocity of the attack his action brought on. The man who had been hiding there launched himself at Doyle, screaming and kicking, his hands clawing and scratching. “Allah give me strength to defeat my enemies!” he shouted. Bodie moved forward and together he and Doyle managed to tame the wild beast, forcing his hands down to his sides and pushing him against the wall. 

“Calm down, mate,” said Bodie, “We just want to talk to you.”

Doyle held the young man by the shoulders, looking into his eyes. “You are Rachid, right?”

A look of determined obstinacy crossed the man’s face, making his suntanned features appear even darker. 

“We’re friends of Benny,” explained Doyle, loosening his grip slightly.

 

Raven RS

 

The man radiated defiance. “And why should I believe you?” he snarled.

Bodie gave Doyle a slow smirk, his eyebrow raised in amusement. “He's got you there, sunshine.”

Doyle grinned, giving Rachid an appraising look, assessing the damage the man could inflict if free. “Yeah, well, it's not like Benny's known for having friends,” he agreed. “Alright, Bodie, let the guy up.” Bodie released Rachid carefully. Rachid shrugged out of Bodie's grip as soon as it loosened, flashing a warning glower at the black haired agent.

“Look, Rachid,” Doyle continued, his voice carefully modulated to reassure the man. “We just want to know about a guy called Dave.”

Rachid's eyes widened. “Dave? The man who looks as like you as two peas in the same pod?”

Bodie gave Doyle a meaningful look. “You know him?”

Rachid nodded, although his dark look did not lighten. “Know of him, aye, and his type. He's a leech, sucking the life from the women, discarding them when they can no longer work for him.” He did not bother trying to hide his disgust.

“And where do you come into this?” Doyle asked.

Rachid gave him a soulful look. “A desperate man takes work where he can find it,” he said calmly. “Besides,” he gave a wide grin and nodded his head in the direction of the stage, “It has its perks.”

“You seen anyone suspicious hanging around, talking to Dave or any of the girls?” Bodie asked.

Rachid gave a shrug. “All the time! It is not so unusual in this business. Some of the girls make money on the side – you understand? Some of them do not. It is wise to know which is which. People get very protective backstage.”

“Anything recent?” Bodie persisted.

Rachid gave a sigh, his gaze travelling around the theatre as he searched his memory. He clicked his fingers. “Yes. Yesterday. Something strange. Although it is only now I realise the strangeness of it.”

“Go on,” Doyle prompted.

“Dave is a shady character, you understand? He deals with the darker side of humanity. He is not easily frightened, but he is not a fool either. He knows to keep himself safe. There was a man here yesterday afternoon who unnerved him. I knew I'd seen him before, but I couldn't place him. Now, I remember.”

“Who was it?” Bodie could barely control his frustration.

“There is a play, performed around the corner from here. A better theatre, a better clientele. When I saw one of the actors here, backstage, yesterday, I didn't recognise him at first. He was out of place. I saw him talking to Dave. He was showing him some photographs. Dave was shaking his head, no, no.” Rachid frowned at the memory, shaking his own head in unconscious mimicry of his remembrance. “Then this man – Philip Mark – he showed Dave something else, and I saw his heart breaking in his eyes. Mark threatened Dave with something, I'm sure.” Rachid sounded positive, his dark eyes shining with certainty.

“Do you know what that could be?” Doyle asked.

Rachid shook his head. “No. Dave is a strange man. Hard. Uncompromising. He has had a hard life, and he is hard on others. He uses people. Yet for all that, beneath it, he could have been a good man. It shows in the strangest ways. But as for weakness, no.” He shook his head again. “Dave does not permit himself a weakness.”

Bodie and Doyle exchanged looks, before turning back to Rachid. Doyle smiled and held out his hand. “Thank you for all your help,” he said, shaking the man's hand firmly.

“Thanks,” Bodie echoed. He paused, giving Rachid a curious look. “Just out of interest, why do you work here?”

Rachid grinned and pointed to a pretty girl on the other side of the stage. She carried a clipboard and pen, issuing orders into her headset and marshalling the army of stagehands and props. “My heart,” he said simply.

Bodie patted him on the shoulder. “Lucky man,” he said with a smile.

Rachid nodded and carried on watching the girl as she continued her job, not noticing when the two agents slid out of the theatre.

Outside, they walked slowly around the street, paying attention to the buildings around them.

“Philip Mark,” Doyle said softly. “So where's he, then?”

They turned the corner to be met with a placard for the theatre performance of Robin Hood. Lurking behind the Lincoln Green clad hero in the poster was a black haired, black clad figure, carved in menace and text book evil.

Bodie pointed at the bottom of the poster. “Nottingham,” he said simply.

“Nottingham?” Doyle affected annoyance. “That's a bloody long trip!”

“Nottingham,” Bodie repeated, ignoring the teasing grin on his partner's face. “As in Sheriff of, you prat.”

Doyle threw a playful punch to his partner's arm. “Always thought you'd make a good Friar Tuck, myself,” he said, turning to run before Bodie could retaliate.

“Yeah, well with your curls, you'd have to be Maid Marian!” Bodie's retort followed him down the street as he ran after his partner, back to the Capri.

 

ILWB

 

Stealthily they approached the rear of their second theatre that day, their movements helpfully screened by the fading evening light. Doyle jumped over a low wall and took cover, while Bodie pressed himself behind a half open door. 

And there, they waited. 

The hour they waited felt like forever, before the man they knew could only be Phillip Mark stepped out of the rear of the theatre. He looked hot, not surprising considering the heavy fur and leather outfit he wore. 

Bodie moved fast, spinning out from behind the door and pushing Mark up against the wall, his gun making itself noticed as he pressed it into his stomach. 

“Don’t move,” he hissed. 

Philip Mark looked totally unperturbed. “I say old boy,” he said, pursing his lips together, “is that a gun in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?”

Bodie didn’t back off, in fact he pushed forward even more. “You, sunshine, are coming with me,” he snarled.

“What, and leave my adoring fans wanting? I don’t think that’s very sporting, do you?”

A puff of fragrant cigarette smoke swirled between their faces, winding its way out of the door and down the dark alleyway. 

Doyle’s attention was taken from where he had been crouched providing cover to Bodie, and he shifted his target slightly back towards the door. “Bodie,” he warned.

A rich voice with a French accent hailed them. “Don’t be alarmed, please, I only wish to ensure my friend is safe.” A frilly white handkerchief was waved out of the doorway in the age old gesture of surrender, closely followed by the black clad figure it belonged to.

 

Raven RS

 

Doyle did not flinch. “Who are you?”

The black clad figure was grey-haired, middle aged, but there was a danger lurking behind the shrewd blue eyes. He exuded an air of coiled menace. “Paul Chauvelin,” he replied with a graceful inclination of his head. 

“And what's your business here?” Bodie gave his captive a shake. Mark's face contained barely concealed humour.

Chauvelin drew from his cigarette, playing with the smoke like ribbons as he inhaled and exhaled with relish. “Maybe we should discuss this somewhere more comfortable,” he said at last.

“Don't I get a say in this?” Philip Mark sounded more amused than annoyed by what was happening around him. His amusement waned somewhat when Doyle clapped his handcuffs on him.

“No, you don't,” he snarled. Doyle turned to Chauvelin, a feral look in his eyes. “What did you have in mind?”

Chauvelin gave a Gallic shrug and indicated the stage door. “Inside, perhaps? I assure you, I am unarmed, and there are no confederates around to interrupt us.”

Bodie and Doyle exchanged looks, assessing the situation. Bodie gave a measured blink; Doyle quirked his head minutely to one side. Chauvelin and Mark watched the silent communication, unable to speak the same language.

“Alright,” Doyle agreed, pulling Mark out of Bodie's grasp and back towards the stage door. Chauvelin stepped to one side with a slight bow. 

Bodie returned the bow with graceful elegance. “Oh no, I insist,” he said silkily, meeting Chauvelin's clear gaze with a sardonic grin. Chauvelin gave a snort of laughter, and followed Doyle and Mark into the theatre. Bodie followed, closing the door behind them.

Once inside, Chauvelin led then unerringly to dressing room, cramped and packed with unused set and costumes. The black leather costume of the Sheriff of Nottingham hung on the back of the door.

Doyle pushed Mark towards the dressing room's only chair. Chauvelin stood beside his friend, as Bodie closed the door. Doyle leaned against the wall, regarding the two men with cold blue-green eyes.

“Well?” He snapped.

“You accosted me,” Mark pointed out, far more affably than his situation suggested. 

“What were you doing at the strip joint round the corner yesterday afternoon?” Bodie demanded.

Mark gave him a wide-eyed look of surprise before bursting into laughter. “I don't know – what could I possibly want from a strip club?” Sarcasm weighed heavily in his voice.

“Are you two gentlemen police?” Chauvelin enquired, his manner far more attentive than Mark.

Doyle did not take his attention from the black haired actor as he flashed his ID at Chauvelin. “Much worse,” he said softly.

Chauvelin inspected both IDs carefully, the keen blue eyes fixing on the two agents. “I see. And this is an official visit?”

“A man's lying near dead in hospital. We've got another in custody for attempting to pervert the course of justice, treason, and attempted murder. And Mr. Mark here was seen harassing one of the suspects.” Bodie summed up the situation succinctly.

Chauvelin turned a questioning look on Mark. “It's not what it looks like, Paul,” he said, his usually jocular manner gone.

“It does seem you have questions to answer, my friend,” Chauvelin said.

Mark licked his lips, sweat sheening his brow as the severity of his situation became apparent. “I did go to the strip club around the corner yesterday,” he admitted at last. “But I didn't threaten anyone. I was just delivering a message.”

“What was the message?” Bodie demanded.

Mark's dark blue eyes flicked from one agent to the other, before settling on his friend. “I don't know. That's the truth,” he said. 

“Who sent the message?” Chauvelin asked.

Mark looked away. “I can't say.”

Chauvelin turned to Bodie and Doyle. “Then I suggest these two gentlemen take you somewhere where you feel able to tell them.”

 

ILWB

 

Mark looked surprised as he stood up, all the fight and confidence suddenly gone. “But Paul, surely you mean to help me?” he whispered. 

“I believe I am helping you.” The elegant Frenchman pulled his friend close, running a finger down his face, in a half seductive, half sinister way. “I cannot fight the authorities, Phillip, you know that.” He turned towards Bodie who already had one hand on Mark’s arm. “Take him.”

Bodie nodded and left the room guiding Mark through the door ahead of him. 

Doyle followed but not before giving the strange Frenchman a backward glance. These theatre types were so over dramatic. 

********

The set up had been seen and done before, but never involving such colourful characters. 

Dave, surname still unrevealed, sat in Interview Room One with Bodie, who stared across the table at him. Bodie was skilled at observing every tiny scrap of body language, and it was this he was concentrating on as they waited. 

Next door in Interview Room Two Doyle was guarding Phillip Mark in a very similar way.   
What was unusual to both CI5 agents was the sound of raised voices from the outer office. 

“Inspector Gently, you have no jurisdiction here,” said Cowley, as patiently as possible.

“I realise that, Mr Cowley, but Sergeant Godley and I have been after that Phillip Mark for six months and we need to question him.” The Inspector took off his heavy woollen overcoat and hung it on the hook on the back of the door, then pulled up a chair and sat down. The young Sergeant stood behind his chair, wondering which of the two would win. 

“We're not leaving, Mr Cowley,” said the Inspector gruffly, but with a twinkle in his eye. 

Cowley took off his glasses and put them on the desktop, looking carefully at the two men. Maybe he could find a way to work with them after all, they obviously knew their quarry. “Right Inspector, I’ll allow you to interview Mark but with my man in the room at all times.”

“I would expect nothing else.” He sat back in the chair, lacing his fingers across his stomach. “And you’ll take the boy?”

“Aye,” said Cowley, “I believe I will.”

The two men smiled at each other, and Godley relaxed. This was familiar territory for them all, and now they were going to get their answers. 

********

With a sigh, Bodie pressed the ‘stop’ button on the tape recorder. He looked up at his boss, confusion on his face. Cowley nodded towards the door and they both left the room, Bodie knocking for Doyle and Inspector Gently on the way.

The four men joined Godley who had been waiting outside, and made themselves comfortable in Cowley’s office, with a glass of whiskey each to ease the grey matter. 

“So,” said Cowley, wandering over to the window and looking out at the dark city, “what have we got?”

Inspector Gently flipped the pages of his black notebook. “Mark folded pretty early on, says he was approached by an un-named man wearing camouflage clothes, who paid him a lot of money to abduct this Don De Marco fellow.”

Bodie joined in. “And Dave says he was coerced into working with him, something to do with an accidental drowning of a girl that Mark had found out about.” He looked up at Cowley. “I think Mark was blackmailing Dave to help him abduct De Marco.”

“Yes,” said Cowley, thoughtfully, “and the abduction went wrong when they realised how much backup De Marco had. The bike accident brought too many people, far too quickly.”

“They lost their chance,” agreed Doyle. “But why try to impersonate me?”

“So they didn’t lose track of De Marco,” replied Bodie. “So who’s the guy in the camouflage, the one who set up the hit?”

“I think there’s only one person who can answer that,” said Cowley, “and that’s Don.”

“Do we have enough to hold them?” asked Inspector Gently.

“I’m not sure,” admitted Cowley, “but I know a man who does.”

 

Raven RS

 

“I'll get it,” John Deed called out, ruffling his short hair with the towel before draping it over his shoulders as he picked up the telephone. He watched the figure of the woman through the frosted glass of the shower.

“Deed.” He was determined to be rid of the caller as soon as possible. In the meantime, he would enjoy the view.

“John? George Cowley.”

Surprise made him stand up straighter, tearing his eyes away from the fuzzy outline of the woman for as split second. “George?”

“Sorry to disturb you.” Cowley forestalled any objection before it could be voiced. “I need some legal advice.”

“And, you being you, it can't wait for office hours,” Deed said with rueful amusement. He gave a low chuckle. “Don't worry, George. Ask away.”

John Deed, QC, listened carefully to the dour Scotsman while his eyes devoured the naked woman in his shower. Watching with lazy arousal as she soaped pert breasts, her hands running over firm skin. An action he soon planned to mimic.

When Cowley had finished his explanation, Deed gave no indication in his voice that he had given anything less than his total attention to the matter. “No, you're quite right, George. You've got something to hold them on. And there shouldn't be any problem getting the search warrant. You just ring me and a sympathetic Judge, and we'll get it for you within an hour.”

“Thank you, John. I'm beholden to you.”

Deed was distracted by the sound of the water stopping in the shower. “Not at all, George. Let me know if you need any help. But – erm,” he paused to give another low, dark laugh. “Not too soon, eh?”

Knowing Cowley would be hiding a blush, Deed replaced the hand set and moved purposefully towards the shower.

********

Don De Marco looked up at the sound of bolts being drawn back on the door to his room. It was difficult not to think of it as a cell, but he knew the security measures were for his own protection, and necessary. The attack on Skellen had proved that.

He gave a welcoming smile as Cowley stepped through the door. “Good evening, sir. Lucky heather?”

Cowley stifled a grin. “Old habits die hard, eh Don?”

“You might say that, sir. Indeed you might.”

Cowley took a seat opposite his undercover man, stretching his wounded leg out to ease the ache settling into a dull throb as the day lengthened. “Someone wants you dead, Don.”

“Well, that wouldn't be anything new now, would it?”

“Aye, probably not, laddie,” Cowley agreed ruefully. “But we've got a description of someone we think is behind it all, and I'd be interested if you could think of anyone who fits the bill.”

“Anything I can do to help, sir.” Don was his usual irrepressible self, despite his situation.

 

ILWB

 

Dawn was just breaking as the cars pulled up in Eaton Place, one of the most exclusive and affluent areas of London. Doyle got out of the Capri, rubbing his hands together and blowing on his fingers to try to get them warm. He looked across at Bodie as he too pulled himself out of the car, seeing how tired he looked, the dark shadows under his eyes. It had been a long couple of days, and it wasn’t over yet. 

He nodded at his partner, knowing instinctively what to do. He pulled at Sergeant Godley’s sleeve before jogging across the road, then they both slipped down the back stairs of the large Edwardian property.

Cowley and Inspector Gently crossed over the road and walked up the main steps, with Bodie just a few paces behind, watching the windows for any movement. 

Cowley knocked firmly on the front door. 

Bodie put his hand inside his jacket and fingered the gun in the holster. 

After a couple of moments they heard a bolt being drawn back and then the large, oak door was slowly opened inwards. They were met by a tall man wearing jungle issue camouflage jacket and trousers and a red beret. He was unshaven and unwashed, and looked very out of place in the opulent setting. 

He stared at them but said nothing. 

Inspector Gently stepped forward. “Good morning, sir,” he said, showing more confidence than he really felt, “We are from the Police and we would like to speak to the owner.” 

The man looked uncertain and was still staring at them intently. 

“What’s your name?” asked Gently. 

There was a definite moment when they thought they weren’t going to get an answer, then he seemed to reconsider. “Commander Robin Wesley,” he said, in a firm but quiet voice. 

“Commander Wesley,” said Gently, nudging Cowley who pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and offered it to him. “We have a warrant to search these premises.” 

“Then you’d better come in,” said Wesley, standing back.

The three men stepped into the large, oak panelled reception hall, with Bodie still hanging back slightly. Wesley was tense, balanced on the balls of his feet as if trying to decide whether to fight or flight.

Cowley gestured towards two large double doors. “What’s through here?” he asked. 

Wesley nodded. “Yes, you can wait in there,” he said. 

Cowley put his hand on the door handle and opened the door, but paused. “After you,” he said to Wesley, waiting until the man had entered the room before following. 

Just then they all heard shouting and sounds of a scuffle coming from downstairs and they moved quickly back into the hall. Bodie pulled his gun from his holster and turned to cover the area. He relaxed when he saw Godley appear and craned his neck to see that Doyle was just behind him, dragging another man along with him. 

“Come on, you bastard, move!” hissed Doyle angrily, his lip cut presumably by a surprise assault from the man. 

As they reached the top of the stairs Doyle pushed the man forward causing him to fall on his hands and knees in front of the group. 

“What’s going on!” asked Cowley.

“Mr Angus Hudson, sir” said Doyle, wiping his lip on the back of his hand, “the money and the brains behind the kidnap attempt on Don De Marco.”

Still on the floor, Hudson looked up. With a clatter, Bodie dropped his gun on the floor.   
Doyle stepped forward, grabbing Bodie’s arm. “What is it?”

Bodie didn’t even look at him, he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off Hudson. “He....he’s my Father,” he stammered.

*******

The early hour didn’t deter the men from each taking a glass of brandy from the decanter in the drawing room. They sat or stood around the room, trying to take in what had happened.

Inspector Gently licked the end of his pencil and started writing in his little black book. He looked over his glasses at Wesley. 

“So, lad, tell me again, your sister....”

“Was married to De Marco, yes.”

“And you felt her disappearance was suspicious?”

“No, I knew De Marco had murdered her. After he left the country none of her family heard from her ever again. I swore I wouldn’t let him get away with it.”

Cowley leaned forward slightly. “And Hudson here provided the cash for the kidnap?”

Wesley nodded, looking down at the floor to try to hide the tears that were forming in his eyes. 

“Did you know your son was going to be providing protection for De Marco?” asked Doyle, quietly, staring across the room at Hudson. 

Hudson slammed his brandy glass down on the side table. “Of course not, man! I haven’t seen him since he was 14. I wouldn’t harm a hair on his head.”

Bodie, who had been stood by the window this whole time, turned his back to the room and looked out. Doyle could see the tension across his shoulders. This, he thought, is going to take some sorting out. 

 

Raven RS

 

Bodie and Doyle manoeuvred their way around the two men arguing in the hospital corridor.

“I tell you, Gavin, you lay one finger on my sister, and I'll have you, boyo!” The curly haired Welshman in the doctor's coat was tight lipped with anger. 

In contrast, the calm, debonair man in the tailored outfit was the epitome of cool and collected. He smoothed his tie down and smiled at the angry doctor. “You really can't blame a chap for trying, Huw,” he started, his voice smooth as silk.

Bodie and Doyle exchanged a look and walked away from the two men.

“Never seen a Welshman so protective of his sister,” Doyle said with a grin.

“Not usually, no,” Bodie agreed. “Now if it were sheep.....”

Doyle punched his arm playfully. “Watch it!”

They laughed and jostled each other into the waiting lift.

In contrast, the hospital room was quiet. Bodie and Doyle entered, all wary concern and seriousness as they took in the black clad figure standing at the foot of the bed. Steel grey hair fell haphazardly over a kind, handsome face, his attention fixed on the small black book in his hands.

“Amen,” he finished as the two men entered.

“Amen,” echoed the man on the bed, and the CI5 agents breathed a sigh of relief as they saw Skellen sat up in bed, dark blue eyes tired but alert.

“Blimey, mate, I thought it was the Last Rites then,” Bodie's relief was evident despite the laughter.

The priest turned to them, amusement in the bright blue eyes as he regarded them. “No. Peter lives to fight another day, I'm pleased to say.” He held out his hand, taking each of theirs in turn in a firm handshake. “Father Jacob, just popping in to do the rounds,” he said in introduction.

“These two reprobates need all the help they can get, Father,” Skellen said from the bed. “They're CI5.”

Father Jacob chuckled softly. “Then I'll say extra prayers for you,” he said with a smile. “Good afternoon, Peter. Gentlemen.”

Skellen settled back in the bed. “So, is everything sorted?”

“You might say that,” Bodie said after a pause.

“It's a bit complicated,” Doyle added.

Skellen gestured to his plastered leg. “Well, pull up a chair. I'm not going anywhere.”

Bodie and Doyle exchanged a look, not knowing where to start. Buying time, Bodie grabbed two chairs and settled them next to the bed. 

“Well, you see, it all started a few years ago now.....” Doyle began, hoping inspiration would strike, or Cowley would call them in for an emergency before he got too tied up in the explanation.

Neither happened. They were there a long time.


End file.
